A Letter To Luna
by and-behold
Summary: "Don't you see how this could have been avoided? Why couldn't you just stay at home like a good little girl?" NonCon Luna/Molly Roomi/Hikari Yuri Lolicon


This started out way more innocuous than you might believe, but, it quickly took on a life of it's own and became extremely violent. It's also fairly short, more of a drabble than anything else. But, I figure a letter would probably leave out some details and just get to the point.

This takes place in the Animal Parade universe, but, Luna is obviously the size she was in ToT. Feedback, even constructive criticism, is more than welcome, so review away~

Warning: This story contains the graphic and violent rape of a child, fisting, homosexuality, sadomasochism, psychosis, cannibalism, and murder. If you find these themes offensive, please do not read any further. You have been warned.

I do not own Harvest Moon. Natsume and Marvelous do. There is also a small little thing towards the end that is so similar to something in The Lovely Bones that I have to credit Alice Sebold. It's a reference and a tribute to her beautifully tragic book.

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Dear Luna,

I love the way your name tastes as it cascades out from my mouth, the first syllable voluptuous and sultry, like a low, wishful moan on a late afternoon, the second a breathy exhale, the kind you might make as you soaked in the tub after a long day of strenuous labor, pleasuring yourself to thoughts of your one and only, the object of your most shameful ardor. The kind I make every night without fail.

Oh, my Luna, my lithe and languorous loli-love, my bad-tempered baby doll, my cheery, cheeky child, you cannot ever fully know how much I adore you and your cruelly candid ways.

Other girls and boys on this island have fallen for me, and I might have indulged in a few sexual delights with them, but, it was always your name I had to bite my lip to keep from screaming when I came.

The way you looked at me, such disdain in the succulent sapphires you call your eyes, when we first met and you took in my admittedly unimpressive outfit, dirty denim skirt under a plain black tee and frayed, hay-strewn red jacket, a pair of scuffed, ten-dollar sneakers with the bottoms torn almost completely off covering my feet, had my knickers soaked for many a day later.

I fell in love with not only you that day, but, the way you treated me, your remarks about the way I smelled and dressed, and the overall snootiness you regarded me with until you saw how much we had in common, until I began bringing you slices of pie and invited you to come pick blueberries with me that one afternoon down by the beach in the thick foliage. (Where, by the way, my dolorous darling, I could have had you as many times as I might've wanted. We were, after all, completely alone. You should have thanked me for waiting so long instead of carrying on in such an unsightly way.)

Sweetly sullen and sullied, you lay under me now (for I am writing this as I look into your eyes), your previously pigtailed cotton-candy curls now tousled and damp with sweat, framing your cordate face. I remember now how I roughly pulled those tendrils loose from the invisible hair bands -clever, always so clever when it came to fashion- in my lust-induced rage.

How could I resist? It was six in the morning when hardly anyone else was up and you were standing at my door with a gift in your tiny hands. A pair of brand new black earmuffs, so fluffy and soft to the touch.

I know it was quite cowardly to invite you in and do what I did because there was no one around to save you. No one would have even heard you scream if I had done it outside and you had no chance of outrunning me had you even tried. That's the beauty of living so far away from anybody else; you can do whatever you want to whoever is unlucky enough to cross your path. You were such easy prey that I almost feel bad about how easy it truly was.

But, in the haze of the early morning, your pink cheeks never pinker, your fragile young body never more tempting, your big blues full of something redolent of lust (for me, for me!), I found you utterly irresistible. And, lo and behold, I didn't.

Your lacy yellow frock ripped away from you so easily, like a ghost of cloth falling in a heap to the floor. You cried out, alarmed by the harsh grip I had on your little arm, which I am horrified to say that I bruised quite badly, and may I forever rot in Hell for that, for degrading your luscious and immaculate flesh.

I smacked you as lightly as I could manage and you quieted somewhat. In the scuffle that ensued, I shoved you onto my bed, a plush scarlet king-size, and hastily freed your body of the socks, shoes, and panties (all pink, my God, I am in tears!) that still adorned your meager form.

And there you were, immodest and irrefutably gorgeous in your hatred as you glared up at me, eyes wide and sharp with fear and rage. I took in your nudity as you kicked at me with your knock-kneed and nimble legs, my heavily calloused fingers enveloping your French-manicured little claws.

Your chest completely flat with small pink nipples staring up at me like a set of eyes, much easier to look at than your real ones, and your not-so-hairless virgin sex, a small patch of pink peach fuzz gracing your so-soft pubis. The saline baby fat of your tummy (which I playfully poked and tickled, and darling, don't lie, you did laugh despite yourself) and your chubby cheeks (those of your face as well as your naughty nates). The subtle tan lines gracing your rounded shoulders signifying solar kisses on the exposed flesh of your limber limbs.

I placed a practically chaste kiss upon your pouty rosebud lips (none of that French stuff; I remember you telling me how disgusted you were by couples tongue-kissing, another thing you and I had in common, my love) and though I was, by definition, raping your poor pubescent mouth, I could have sworn I felt you kissing me back.

What came next is beyond shameful, and also beyond reproach. Because I adamantly disbelieve that anyone on this Earth could have resisted you, my lovely little Luna with the bones and flesh of an angel, as you lay nude on my blood-red blankets with that beautiful look on your face, and I loved you more than I ever loved anything else in the world.

Lacking the parts that interlock with yours, I pushed two digits into your cunt (and how you howled when I did so!) and was unsurprised by the blood that flowed out. Not that much, but, it marked you as forever mine because I was the one who had spilled it.

(In the morning, I'll burn the bloody blanket, along with this letter, but, for right now I need both to mourn.)

Once you were loose enough, and I couldn't wait any longer, I plunged my fist inside you and you screamed and writhed so delectably I thought I might come from just the sound of it. How warm and tight it was inside you! How the walls of your sex convulsed and your little flesh-bud throbbed and burgeoned!

Viciously rubbing at my own clitoris, I pushed my arm farther inside of you until I was almost up to my elbow in you. In and out, in and out, I fucked you relentlessly. And I could see the loathing in your eyes grow stronger with every thrust.

I understand your hatred; I betrayed you and your childish trust. You thought a woman could never hurt you the way that purple-haired faggot hurt your big sister. You always found solace in the bust and embrace of women when men did nothing but bring fear and pain to your world. You were always small for your age, ten when I met you and looking eight. Now you're one year older yet none the wiser, it seems.

And you might have loved me one day if I could have held off a little longer. Two more years and I could have legally married you and we could have lived happily ever after. And maybe I could have waited if you wouldn't have shown up uninvited so early in the morning, when, before you knocked, I was thinking of catching and cutting up a king salmon later in the evening. I still might if I can regain enough stamina after this sordid affair. Fucking you really tired me out.

Don't you see how this could have been avoided? Why couldn't you just stay at home like a good little girl? I hate to say it -I really do- but, this is all your fault, you stupid little slut.

When it was done, when I'd finally come, convulsing and shaking and moaning in ecstasy, I pulled out and lay on top of you for a moment before raising myself up on my elbows, smiling down at you and your nearly dead eyes.

"Tell me you love me."

Gently, you did.

I'm sorry to say that the end came anyways.

Sincerely,

Molly

P.S. I forgot to thank you for the earmuffs, so thanks a lot! They are sooo comfy and warm! You have to tell me what material you used to make them when you write me back!

P.S.S. God, I'm so silly! I just realized - I don't have to catch that salmon at all. I can just cook you up tonight. I mean, you're already cut up quite nicely on the bed (by service of my trusty silver axe) and I'd hate to waste good meat like that. I'm feeling a bit lazy today anyways. I hope you aren't too cross with me, darling. Write back soon!


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